


Bottle It Up: Or, Of Ice Cream and Wine

by GoodGuyJean (orphan_account)



Series: My Main Canon Jearmin AU [2]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Canon, Drinking, Drunkenness, Established Relationship, Jean's POV, Jearmin - Freeform, M/M, Manga Spoilers, Mutual Pining, Post-Break Up, Problematic Eren, Spoilers for 123, discussion and maintenance of consent, drunk makeout, flangst, no drunk sex, sad young people
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-12
Updated: 2019-11-12
Packaged: 2021-01-29 01:22:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21401833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/GoodGuyJean
Summary: It's the first Paradisan Eldian expedition back to the mainland and things are . . . weird, between the young members of Squad Levi. Much to Jean's confusion, his ex-lover Armin, who has been giving him the cold shoulder for years after ending their brief but intense relationship, begins flirting with him once they set foot in Marley. Or is that Jean's desperate imagination? Drunkenly confronting Armin at a party (started by the perpetually broody Eren, of all people), Jean may get more than he bargained for . . .My interpretation of and additions to the November 2019 chapter of SnK, chapter 123. This story takes place in the same universe as my Jearmin Week 2019 fic, A Life Within Walls.
Relationships: Armin Arlert/Jean Kirstein
Series: My Main Canon Jearmin AU [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1493819
Comments: 5
Kudos: 27





	Bottle It Up: Or, Of Ice Cream and Wine

**Author's Note:**

> Just a note, because I'm usually a canon fiend. I changed some things from canon. This was initially done unintentionally (I wrote from memory of the chapter and misremembered some details), but I like the fic this way. I'll note what's different down in the notes below, but just so you're aware!

Pic by Mirandafandomette!!!

After basically a whole life of eating tasteless food, Jean can’t get over the fact that the ocean is so salty you can _smell_ it. Well, right now it smells like a mixture of salt and the oppressive smog billowing out of a shoot on the fancy oil-or-whatever-powered boat they’re taking to the mainland.

_The mainland._

Since joining the Survey Corps four years ago, Jean has learned of mainlands and islands, of vast territories filled with humans who all have their own unique ways of dressing, eating, and speaking. He still boggles at it all a bit, but it is, with time, becoming easier and easier to accept.

…as Sasha and Connie squeal over every new object encountered on the boat, drawing the startled eyes of their fellow passengers, Jean wishes that they could find their new reality easier to accept too.

And there are so, so many eyes. They’re packed like sardines (a type of food Jean has recently discovered and found out that he actually likes quite a bit, though the strong taste was a lot to get used to) in this boat with a multitude of other humans, any one of whom could potentially identify them as “devils” from Paradis. And Connie and Sasha are too entranced to even pretend to be cautious, apparently.

To be fair to them, it’s hard to know where to look when they first disembark at the Marleyan docks. Cities in the Walls could get crowded sometimes, and Jean has definitely seen mobs before, but now everywhere he looks there’s another human: bustling, shouting, picking their nose. The air is also heavy with their sweat, making it hard for Jean to breathe. How can so many humans manage in such a cramped place? He tugs at his tie to loosen it—who invented these, also? Why have a random piece of extra fabric tied around your neck like a torture device? And why do only men have to wear them? He supposes he can get the idea of being extravagant with your fabric if you’re not worried about where and how you’ll get more, but it feels a bit like a noose.

That’s too ominous, he shouldn’t think like that.

He should probably be enjoying the novelty of being off the island, of being one of the first Eldians from Paradis to return to the mainland. Walls, he’d never predicted he’d live through his first year in the Survey Corps, much less become a personal aide to its commander and therefore the type of person who would not only be allowed to go on such a mission, but _asked_ to. However, he finds himself constantly worrying. Connie and Sasha are loud in their exclamations of wonder, and they keep talking about the “island,” right where others can hear. They’re supposed to be on a reconnaissance mission, and there’s the dynamic duo constantly on the verge of breaking their cover. Besides that, he’s nervous about how this meeting with the Marleyans will go. What if they decide not to back down from attacking Paradis?

His eyes slide over to Eren, lagging behind everyone, gaze glued to the cobblestones. Well, apparently Jean at least has a way to go before reaching _that_ level of melancholia. Shouldn’t Eren be happy to be so far outside the Walls? Isn’t this what he always wanted? Even the stoic Mikasa looks bright-eyed and curious, though obviously not as exuberant as Connie and Sasha, or as quietly awed and delighted as Armin . . . no, he shouldn’t look at Armin. They speak sometimes now, but things are still tense between them and—

“Huh?! What kind of horse is that?!” Oh, fucking Walls, Connie is _pointing _now!

Sasha runs over to him, yelling, “No! That’s a cow! Hello, _cow_!”

Jean’s heart is in his throat, his face rapidly heating up with shame. He’s so distracted by his friends’ absurd display, he walks right into Armin, who has stopped dead in his tracks, mouth slightly open in . . . horror?

“No, that’s a car,” Hange calmly explains. “Kiyomi briefed us on them.” Finally someone reasonabl—“Hello, _car_!” Hange calls with a wave.

People are staring, oh fuck, people are looking! They’re going to get caught. Without thinking, he grabs the sleeve of Armin’s jacket and starts tugging him backward. Armin does not resist being pulled away, grimacing as he looks around him.

“This is bad. They’re looking at them.”

“Yes.” Jean yanks his hat down so the brim obscures his eyes. “Hopefully they just think they’re some kind of bumpkins right now . . .”

“Eh?” Armin glances up at him with wide, worried eyes. “Any attention is bad attention, Jean!”

“You don’t think I know that!” Jean hisses. He still has ahold of Armin’s jacket, pulling him further away from the ruckus being caused by their friends. “Let’s just pretend we don’t know them.”

Even though people are slowing down to watch the rubes fawning over a car, the crowd generally continues to press on, so preoccupied with their own lives that they apparently don’t have time to do more than spare Connie, Sasha, and Hange a frown. Armin and Jean are buffeted away from their friends, and, Jean realizes abruptly, into each other, Armin’s smaller frame leaning back against his. Jean’s hand briefly hovers near Armin’s waist as if to steady him, and it surprises him how natural it feels . . . how automatic the impulse to touch Armin still is. They haven’t been this close since . . . well, since they used to have sex, to be honest. Three fucking years ago.

He balls his hand into a fist and glues it to his side.

Armin is saying something, snapping Jean out of spiraling into memories he’s been repressing oh so long.

“Hm?”

“I said, they’re buying the car a carrot,” Armin repeats, raising a finger to point out Connie and Sasha gleefully handing over their money to a vegetable vender on the side of the road.

“Don’t point!” Jean snaps, unthinkingly pushing Armin’s hand down. As soon as he touches him, it shocks him again how easy it is—how easy it would be to keep holding his hand. Instead, he pulls his own hand away like he’s touched hot coal and shoves it into his pants pocket.

_Fuck it, Armin _left _you! And it’s been fucking _years_!!_ _How can you still want to touch him, you complete imbecile!_

If Armin guesses what’s on his mind, it doesn’t show at all on his face. He just nods to Jean and says. “You’re right. We should intervene though; this can’t keep happening.”

Jean grunts his grudging agreement and prepares to push his way through the crowd to his careless friends.

The afternoon rapidly devolves into “prevent Connie and Sasha from blowing their cover and spending all their money”, with Jean and Armin running the most interference. The commander is no help; they’re just a likely to get distracted themself, although at least they have enough sense to realize when something is a machine and not an animal. Levi skulks behind everyone with their Marleyan ally Onyankopon, glaring around for possible threats. Mikasa at least quietly takes everything in, although Jean notices she keeps glancing back to Eren who is . . . well, pretty much as he always has been lately. Listless. Lost in his own thoughts. Staring into the middle distance as he contemplates . . . Attack Titan business, Jean supposes. Well, he can do that in his free time, can’t he? A hand controlling the chaos right now would be nice . . . instead, Jean is worried Eren is gonna peel off himself to get into Walls know what kind of trouble . . .

“Iced cream?” He says wearily when Sasha brandishes a small cone full of what, frankly, looks like soft poop in his face.

“With choco-late!” she beams. And then—ugh—she licks it.

Jean winces. “What the fuck is choco-late?”

“Try some!” Connie insists, bringing him a bulging cone of the stuff. Jean is touched in spite of his revulsion.

“Fine!” he grumbles, taking it. Even wrapped in paper, the cone is cold in his fingers. He sniffs it cautiously and then, bracing himself, gives it a lick.

It’s . . . delicious.

Weird. But delicious.

Very sweet with a flavor that Jean can’t place, and so cold it almost burns his tongue, but Jean instantly goes back for another taste. And it’s just as good.

He immediately turns to Armin, who is talking in a low voice with Mikasa, and holds the cone out him. “You _have_ to try this! It’s amazing.”

Armin’s shoulders slump and he raises an eyebrow. “You too?”

Jean shakes his head. “I’m not playing, Armin, this is seriously the best shit I’ve ever had!!”

Armin mumbles something that sounds like, “It certainly looks like feces.” But then he’s grabbing Jean’s wrist to hold his arm steady and leaning in to lick the iced cream.

It takes all of Jean’s effort not to drop the cone then and there.

Armin . . . touched him . . . and then licked his food . . . and looked . . . he looked . . . cute . . .

Armin’s hand stays on Jean’s wrist for a brief moment while he ponders the taste of the cream. Then his face breaks out into a smile that wrenches Jean’s heart out of his chest. “Okay, you’re right, that’s amazing!”

“R-right?” Jean manages, smiling back awkwardly.

Armin nods, still beaming, but his takes his hand away. Jean’s stomach sinks. Armin is turning to Mikasa now, suggesting they both go get their own iced creams. He’s pretending like everything he just did was totally normal, apparently completely oblivious to the fact that he’s had any effect on Jean. But Jean knows Armin . . . he doesn’t do things carelessly . . . does he? Or does he not know Armin anymore? Did he do that to show Jean he doesn’t care at all now, that he can touch him casually without any kind of consequence? Or did he do it to signal—no. Jean can’t think like that; he’s long given up trying to make sense of the maze that is Armin’s brain.

Hasn’t he?

_Fuck_.

When he finally shakes off his daze, he turns to see Armin trying to awkwardly carry three cones of the iced cream in his two hands. Automatically, Jean goes over to him and offers, “Can I help?”

“O-oh, yeah,” Armin says, looking a little abashed. “I just wanted to take them to—” he breaks off as he looks over Jean’s shoulder, and his face falls slightly. Jean turns to see Eren carelessly leaning on the iron rails that are clearly meant to a keep some from falling to their death against the rocks below. Approaching him, iced cream held out before her in offering, is Mikasa.

Jean turns back to Armin, who has forced his face back into a tense smile.

“What do you think?” He asks, pointedly scanning the crowd, even though a deep blush comes to his face. “I figured Connie and Sasha could each eat another cone, but maybe I’ve overestimated them?”

Jean spares another glance for the pair by the sea; Eren’s face is obscured by the glare of the sun, but he’s turned towards the ocean, not moving from his spot. Mikasa’s shoulders are drooping, withdrawing the iced cream from between them.

“You can never overestimate Sasha,” Jean says in as hearty a voice as he can muster for Armin. “Sometimes Connie’s eyes are too big for his stomach though. If he doesn’t finish it, I’ll help.” He plucks out the cone tucked awkwardly in Armin’s elbow.

“Thank you,” Armin murmurs, keeping his back turned to Eren and Mikasa.

Jean shrugs and glances away. “Anytime.”

When he looks back at Armin, he catches the other man surveying him from under his hat, one eyebrow quirked. Before Jean can wonder too much at that, Armin is calling, “Sasha! Connie!”

“Round two!” Jean bellows, hefting one of the cones to entice their easily distracted friends back. “Get it before it melts!”

* * *

Somehow, Eren of all people starts a party.

Melancholy, brooding Eren, who usually spends his time these days lurking in dark corners.

The mainland certainly changes people.

Sometime after dinner, Armin appears at the door to Jean’s room in Kiyomi’s mansion, twisting his hands together and hopping from foot to foot. Just seeing him there startles Jean, and he briefly allows himself to wonder if—

“Eren and Mikasa are missing,” Armin blurts. Jean frowns, caught between disappointment, self-disgust that he could ever have thought Armin was randomly deciding to come back to him, and worry that Eren has finally ditched them, as Jean suspected he would. He decides to assuage all of his feelings with action and grabs his coat and hat from the peg near the door. He leaves the torture-device tie on the floor, however.

“Where would they have gone?”

Armin nods towards Jean’s window; on the crest of the hill, the lights of campfires flicker.

“The Middle Eastern refugees live there,” he explains.

His guess ends up being correct. After rounding up Connie and Sasha—partially for their help, but also partially to make sure they don’t wander off themselves—they trek out across the grounds and eventually do run into Eren and Mikasa, who are being led into a tent by an elderly Middle Eastern man and the young boy who’d picked Sasha and the Captain’s pockets earlier that afternoon.

“What are you doing?” Armin calls to them, starting to run. “You of all people—” he catches himself as he comes to a stop, eyeing the Middle Easterners. How much do they understand? Clearly, Armin isn’t certain and doesn’t want to take risks.

Eren just looks at him. Next to him, Jean can see that Mikasa’s face is a surprisingly deep shade of red—it’s so startlingly vivid, he can see it in the dim evening light.

_What were they doing? _

Jean doesn’t have long to ponder that, as they’re all quickly ushered into one of the Middle Easterner’s tents and sat down in a circle, a tin can of some dark liquid placed in front of them. Even from a distance it smells strongly of alcohol. He exchanges a nervous glance with Armin, who’s seated next to him. And then Eren, ponderously, wearing a regally indulgent smile, picks up his cup and drinks. They stare at him as he swallows it with an impeccably blank face. Jean holds his breath, waiting for some kind of reaction, some indication that there’s a human being left inside that shell somewhere . . . but nothing.

After a few tense moments where they all stare at Eren, Mikasa breaks the spell and raises her own can to her lips. Her eyebrows crinkle ever-so-slightly, and Jean finally lets out his breath.

Next Armin raises his cup in a salute to Jean, then screws up his own face and gulps it down. He looks really cute all scrunched up like that, and the fact that he specifically looks to Jean causes a confusing rush of emotions. Armin chokes briefly, then manages to keep it down.

Well, if that’s how this is going go. Bottoms up.

The alcohol is strong, but it’s masked by something that is simultaneously tart and sweet. It’s . . . a lot of flavor, and Jean almost gags at first, but after the first couple swallows, it becomes okay.

On the second cup, it becomes delicious.

On the third cup, the music becomes too loud—wait, when did the music start? Oh, that man in the corner pulled out some kind stringed instrument—and Jean is laughing and dancing with a man he’s never seen before in his life.

The fourth cup is a sour red wine . . . Jean and Connie accompany their new best friend, whose name Jean can’t quite remember, to get bottles and bottles of wine from another refugee, who also decides to come to the party. The more, the merrier!

Halfway through the fifth cup, Jean manages to sidle up to a swaying and giggling Armin at the edge of their makeshift dance floor and ask loudly, “Why . . . why did you like—lick!—my iced cream today?”

That makes Armin snicker, his own glass tipping and sloshing onto the rug beneath his feet. Jean doesn’t blame him, the inside of the tent is spinning ridiculously fast right now . . . fuck, it’s the alcohol and he knows it . . . but it’s hard to fight . . .

“You of-fered,” Armin enunciates, then smiles. His face and nose are red—and it’s very cute, actually. _Shit. _“People don’t . . . usually offer me things so,” he shrugs, “I took it.”

Jean nods; that makes sense. Or does it? “W-wait._ I _offer you alotta things!” He slurs, clutching Armin’s shoulder to steady himself. Fuck, he needs to focus. The drink is clouding his brain, but if he really concentrates on the words he needs to say, maybe they’ll come out properly. “I offer you my friend . . . ship, I offered you my . . .” he pauses searching for the right word. “Lo—”

Abruptly, Armin presses a finger to Jean’s lips. Jean is a bit numb to sensation right now, but his heart does race at the thought that once again Armin is actually touching him, after years of giving him the cold shoulder. And even though he knows he shouldn’t, even though he knows they’re in public—admittedly, not a very attentive public—he has the impulse to kiss it.

_How sad you are, Jean Kirstein. _

“You always have to talk!” Armin accuses, spilling more wine on the ground as he gestures a bit wildly. He doesn’t take the finger away though. “Talk, talk, talk, talk! Sometimes . . . sometimes words can-not help!”

Jean rolls his eyes. “Oh, c’mon! Talking, talking helps!” he says against Armin’s finger. He hates how whiny he sounds, but it’s hard to say words that make sense when there’s literally four Armins blinking up at him and music is crashing down on his ears.

Armin shakes his head, sweaty bangs flopping across his face, and Jean’s frustration grows. Feeling mutinous, he gently grabs Armin’s wrist and finally gives into his strange urge to kiss the obnoxiously silencing finger.

His heart drops when Armin recoils, staring at Jean with those irritatingly large blue eyes. Jean crosses his arms over his chest to protect himself. “How is that for not talking?” He grumbles like he did it to prove a point, when really, he’s just as confused as the four Armins look right now.

They stare at each other in silence for a moment, and then Jean decides he has to retreat. What did he think he was doing, talking to Armin? Fuck. Armin has continually made himself clear; whatever they had as teenagers is over. Jean takes a shaky step back. “Sorry—”

Before he can get any further in his apology, Armin abruptly reaches out to grab his wrist, dragging him to the center of the room. “We should dance!” he calls, suddenly laughing again, attempting to twirl Jean around. Utterly bewildered, Jean follows, then starts flinging his body randomly along to the beating drums. Walls, he’s lost control of himself—how can his body disobey him like this? Armin looks wild himself though . . . lovely wild, free wild, throwing his hands up in the air and laughing . . . fuck, it smells like sweat here . . . sweat and heat and . . . where did Armin go?

Jean turns around, searching, but Armin is lost somewhere in a sea of bodies, all spinning and blurring together . . . and the air is salty . . .

Fuck, he needs some clear air.

Trying not to shove anyone, Jean shoulders through the throngs and out of the tent, taking refreshing deep breaths. It helps to cool his face, but the world keeps spinning. Fuck. He plops down on the ground beside a tentpole, his body slumping and flopping beyond his control.

“Alcohol really looooosens you up,” he chuckles to himself, throwing his hands into the sand and patting it just to marvel at the gritty sensation against his palm.

“Does it?” Armin, appearing from Walls know where, drops down onto him . . . yes, onto him, right in his lap. His arms wrap around Jean’s neck and he leans back as if he might fall backwards without this meager support.

“Yes,” is all Jean can manage, a bit stupefied. Armin nods, once again apparently oblivious to Jean’s feelings as well as their compromising position . . . does he even remember Jean’s stupid little kiss right now? Jean can’t decide if that would be worse or better than if he didn’t.

“You’re on my lap,” Jean finally explains, genuinely curious if Armin has any understanding of what he’s doing right now.

Armin cocks his head to one side and fixes Jean with a very considering look. “Is that a problem?”

Jean shrugs. His hands twitch as if to grab Armin’s waist, but he remembers he’s not supposed to . . . because Armin rejected him. Several times. Today, even. “Not a problem . . .” he mumbles. “It’s just not something Armin would do.”

For some reason that sends Armin into peals of laughter. Intense laughter, almost . . . upset laughter? When he catches his breath enough to speak, he manages, “Oh, Jean! I’m not Armin anymore. I’m Bertolt!”

What the fuck?

Jean tries several times to make sense of this sentence and fails. He wonders if it’s the drink that’s fogging his brain for a moment and then decides that this statement would be bizarre even if he was sober. He opens his mouth to tell Armin as much, but what comes out is, “Bertolt wouldn’t sit in my lap either.”

Armin apparently also finds this very funny. He rocks back and forth, laughing so hard he begins to hiccup, tears glistening in the corners of his eyes. Finally, he leans forward and buries his face in Jean’s neck, still chuckling as he presses himself close. “No, I s’pose he wouldn’t. I’ll take that.”

His breath is warm on Jean’s sensitive skin, his little nose nuzzling. Jean finally gives into his instincts and puts a hand on the small of Armin’s back. As if he’s given some kind of secret signal, Armin pulls his head away from Jean, looks into his eyes for the briefest moment, and then clumsily kisses him right on the lips.

Jean is too drunk to fully feel at the moment; the sensations of the kiss all tumble together, so he’s not really aware of what is a sound and what is a smell. But he recognizes that they are kissing, that Armin’s mouth his warm and soft, and that there’s a sharp, yearning ache in his belly that makes him want to cry.

He kisses back automatically, a bit surprised at how naturally their lips still seem to fit together. Even drunk off their asses, Jean seems to physically remember how to kiss Armin, his hands holding his hips as he opens his mouth for Armin’s insistent tongue. The force of Armin’s kiss combined with the stupefying effects of alcohol push Jean onto his back on the sand—he can’t complain really, this is comfortable. Armin on top of him, shifting and pressing close, moaning into the kiss—yes, this is both comfortably familiar and the stuff of his desperate dreams . . .

. . . but there’s a problem. They’re not supposed to be doing this. Armin said he didn’t want to do this at all anymore, much less out in the open on a scrubby plain behind Kiyomi’s mansion while a party rages on in the tent beside them. And Jean is absolutely certain that they only thing prompting Armin to start this with him at the moment is the alcohol . . .

As soon as that that crystal clear thought cuts through the drunken fog in Jean’s brain, Armin rolls his hips against his, and Jean has to break from the kiss to gasp. He opens his eyes to see Armin smiling very charmingly down at him. He loosens Jean’s collar and bends to kiss his neck, pushing hips against Jean’s crotch again.

“You like me, right Jean?” Armin mumbles against his skin. “I like you too.”

Before Jean can respond, Armin nips him, and he cries out. Armin puts a finger his lip for a second time this night. Then he sits back, looking thoughtful. “You want me, right?”

Jean doesn’t hesitate, “Yes.”

Armin nods and kisses Jean’s lips again, one of his hands finding Jean’s belt. As he finally pulls the leather free, Jean summons enough willpower to put his hands on Armin’s shoulders and gently push the other man away.

“Stop,” he says, even though part of his mind begs him to let Armin continue.

His throat sticks when he sees Armin’s face crumple in the dim light filtering through the tent, wrecked with desolation. He rushes to explain as best he can.

“Armin . . . you’re drunk.”

“You’re drunk!” Armin hisses back. He drops Jean’s belt and shrugs his shoulder out of Jean’s grasp.

“Yes . . . exactly. We’re both very drunk. And I don’t want to start . . . something . . . when you might not know what you’re doing.”

Armin throws his hands up in the air. “How else am I supposed to start it?”

Drunk Jean can’t process that sentence well enough to answer it properly, so he decides to not try. “You broke up with me, remember?” He attempts instead. “You said that love . . . love got in the way.” Fuck, his throat aches and his eyes burn. Is that the wine? Or is he just crying . . . fuck, he can’t cry, not now!

“I remember,” Armin mumbles, almost sounding ashamed. He hugs himself, shivering in a sudden wind that sweeps across the hilltop.

In the tent next to them, Jean hears Sasha scream, “Five more of those tasty things pleaaaaase!”

Jean watches Armin’s shoulders slump, and then he crumples down onto Jean’s chest, rubbing his face against his rumpled shirt. Jean understand the impulse—being drunk seems to make everything _feel_ more somehow. “But you did . . . want to start something?” Armin murmurs, pressing his body close as if seeking Jean’s warmth.

After a moment of hesitation, Jean decides it’s probably okay to give into this cuddling. Drunk men cuddle. Fuck knows, he’s woken up in strange positions with Connie and even Floch before. He wraps his arms around Armin’s thin frame and rubs his back a bit, hoping to warm him.

“Jean?” Armin prompts, just as Jean thought maybe the other man had fallen asleep.

“Hm?” he asks, struggling against heavy eyelids himself. It’s always weird how quickly wine makes him crash.

“D’you . . . you wanted something, right?”

“Yes,” Jean mumbles, taking a risk and planting a soft kiss in Armin’s hair. “I wanted you.”

The world goes dark after that.

* * *

Jean wakes up to Armin wriggling on top of him. The sound of clothes reverberates in his sensitive skull.

“Stay still!” He grunts. Fuck, his head feels like someone is taking a mallet right between his eyes and his throat rasps for water.

“Jean!” Armin’s voice is thin and high, full of panic. “Jean! We have to . . . shit, we have to move!”

Soldier instincts taking over, Jean sits up and squints at the world around him. It’s dim, gray, and cold, the hulking outlines of tents dark against the lightening sky. Everything appears calm, but Jean knows better than to accept appearances.

“What’s wrong?”

Armin, still tangled up in Jean’s lap, shakes his head. “We need to move, we need to go back to the tent before someone finds us . . . like this.”

Jean realizes his hands are protectively on Armin’s shoulders. He abruptly withdraws them, feeling slapped. “Oh. Right.”

_I knew it._

Armin stands up shakily, like a newborn calf taking its first steps. Never one to hold too much of a grudge, Jean reaches out a hand to steady him, but he waves it off. He looks down at Jean and winces.

“Your . . . your pants are undone.”

Feeling a bit embarrassed, Jean straightens himself out. As he’s buckling back up, Armin asks, “Did we . . .?” He trails off, his face pink, his eyes unfocused.

Jean shakes his head, his stomach twisting in knots. “No, we didn’t.” He answers. The truth.

Armin nods, relief etched on every line of his face. Jean doesn’t know if he’s relieved himself that Armin trusts his word, or sad that he was right; Armin didn’t really want to sleep with him. It was just the alcohol.

He supposes he can feel both at the same time.

“Let’s go inside,” Armin says, offering Jean a hand. A bit surprised, Jean takes it, allowing Armin to help him up.

“We’ll lay down in opposite corners, that’ll allay suspicions.”

Jean drops Armin’s hand. “Right.”

Why does it bother him so much when he doesn’t expect Armin to act any differently?

“Let’s get going then,” he says gruffly, gesturing for Armin to lead the way.

Armin turns to start walking to the tent, but then pauses. “We won’t . . . talk about this with anyone, right? Nothing happened at all right, we were just . . . hugging? Like drunk men do?”

“Yeah, okay,” Jean’s voice is terse and clipped.

“No,” Armin insists, his mouth compressed into a thin line of worry. “That _is_ all we did, right?”

Jean blinks at him, frowning. “You really . . . don’t remember?”

Armin shakes his head just as Sasha stumbles out of the tent. She looks around dazedly, and waves when she seems them. Armin freezes, a panicked animal caught in a predator’s stare.

“D’you know where a lady could . . . piss?” Sasha slurs.

“On the other side of the tent, we’re pissing here,” Jean answers without thinking. He looks at Armin. “This is a pretty manly place to piss, right?”

Sasha giggles. “Don’t hit the tent!” And then, with a jaunty wave, she sways away.

Armin raises an eyebrow at him. “Go inside,” Jean says with a nod to the tent. “I do really need to piss. Find a place to sleep and I’ll pick another place far away from you.”

“Th-thank you,” Armin manages. A prickle of anger shoots down Jean’s spine, but he shrugs. To signal that the conversation is over he starts unbuckling his pants again, stalking away to find a place that’s a bit further away from where humans are sleeping. He hears the ground crunching as Armin takes off in the opposite direction.

As he pees into a nearby bush, Jean considers what Armin had said . . . or he considers it as best he can with his head throbbing and his throat scratching. Did Armin really mean that he couldn’t remember? Or was it just another of his manipulations? Should Jean have told him . . . or tried to lie to him, to reassure him? He’d looked genuinely frightened . . . had Jean seen something he’d wanted to keep hidden, a secret pain he was keeping from the rest of them as he enthused about the possibilities of the outside world?

Jean remembers the hurt look Armin had shot at Eren and Mikasa, the panic he’d seemed to feel at being left behind. He remembers Armin’s manic laughter when he’d claimed he was Bertolt, how he’d almost begged Jean to say that he wanted him . . . and what Jean had said was the truth, Walls be damned, but why had Armin _needed_ to hear it?

_Why does he push me away? _Jean finds himself thinking as he zips up his pants. _Why does he hold me away when he needs me . . . when he could have me . . . I could help him! Is that patronizing? Or is it patronizing for Armin to keep yanking me around? It’s not _so _patronizing, I need him too! He’s the only one who really sees me too . . ._

“Fuck!” Jean says to the early morning air, blinking back tears and sniffling. He dashes them away quickly, taking deep, shaky breaths. He’s in the weepy phase of drunkenness apparently. The tired, weepy phase . . . fuck, love isn’t supposed to hurt like this, is it?

He takes a few moments to calm himself, making sure the tears aren’t going to escape, and then makes his way back to the tent. He still doesn’t have very good control of his body, and his head hurts like no one’s business, but he’s too tired to try finding a water skin right now. Back in the tent, he sees his comrades sprawled out across the rug with a half dozen strangers. He scans them to find Armin, half reconsidering his promise to sleep away, and then finds him dozing gently with his head close to Eren’s. Mikasa lies on Eren’s other side, her hair tangled with his, her hand brushing his shoulder. Somehow, Eren is turned away from both of them, his face pointing directly upwards.

Fighting the urge to cry again, Jean half crawls to an empty spot on the floor at Eren’s feet, far away from Armin, flopping onto his back with a heavy sigh. He shoots Armin one last look . . . and could swear for a brief moment that he sees a clear blue eye peeping at him. But when he looks again, Armin is clearly sleeping, his face a perfect mask of calm.

When Jean wakes up a second time to the Captain’s shouting and Sasha’s retching, he has to wriggle out from under Eren’s leg. He must have shifted in the night.

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone! Thanks for reading!! I'm thirsting so hard for jearmin these days, and this month Isayama gave me a damp towel and I managed to squeeze some Jearmin out to quench my thirst a bit ahaha. 
> 
> First of all, a big thank you to the amazing Mirandafandomette for letting me use their picture and for beta reading things!!!! Please check them out on tumblr, they have more jearmin and so much more there!!! Also please check them out here, their fics are great!!!
> 
> Next, what was different in this chapter than in the canon? A short list:
> 
> -Some of the dialog about the "cow car"; I remembered that Hange said "Hello car!" but the rest is slightly altered.  
-Eren does actually take Mikasa's ice cream (it's also not clear how she gets that??). It's just hidden in a small panel. I just missed that, and thought this reading was coherent with what happens with Eren at the end of the chapter.  
-Mikasa asks where Eren is while at a meeting in Kiyomi's house, and presumably leads the search for him. Armin doesn't hesitate to speak in front of the middle easterners. I also misremembered this and then liked the idea of Armin actively asking for Jean's help too much to change it. Additionally, I have been . . . unhappy, with how naive Isayama has been making Armin in recent chapters. I thought presenting him as searching and cautious fit his earlier (and my preference) character better.  
-I think Eren may smile more in the party. I also made the party more melancholy than Isayama does I think. I just . . . cannot read it as happy. I have a hard time sympathizing with Eren right now (sorry to lay my cards on the table like this . . .) and he actually just kinda reminds me of Thanos . . . so that's how I wrote him  
-I tried really hard to not orientalize the Middle Easterners as much as Isayama does but I may not have succeeded and for that I apologize
> 
> I hope, even given all that, you still enjoy this fic! Maybe me over explaining it now just made it less enjoyable, I dunno ^^' Take from it what you like and ignore me!! I talk too much!!


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